JAMES NELSON - Thieves Of Mercy

The General Page backed out into the river as Sullivan raced from side to side of the wheelhouse, stepping out on the deck, now to starboard, now to port, shouting into the dark, keeping up a running commentary. He was a tornado, exhausting just to watch, grinning wide with the sheer joy of having the riverboat moving under him.

Baxter, by contrast, said nothing, stared straight ahead through the glass, puffed the cheroot. He seemed not even to notice Sullivan, and the constant stream of instructions that Sullivan poured on him seemed to have no effect on his steering whatsoever.

In that way the side-wheeler swung away from the dock and turned her bow downstream.

“Ooowee, we goin now, Cap’n Bowater, we surely are!” Sullivan pulled a cigar from the pocket of his sack coat, stuck it in his mouth in a gesture that reminded Bowater very much of Hieronymus Taylor. Sullivan was grinning. Bowater could not remember the last adult he’d met who greeted life with such pure exuberance as Mississippi Mike Sullivan. There was something enviable about it.

“What brought you down to Vicksburg, Captain?” Bowater asked.

“Cracked bearin on the starboard paddle shaft,” Sullivan said, still moving from side to side across the front of the wheelhouse, his eyes everywhere. “Been up around Fort Pillow since… hell…”

“March,” Baxter supplied.

“March. Waitin for our chance to get at them damned Yankee gunboats, them turtles. I’m gonna be mighty angry if they whipped them Yankees while we was down here. All right, Baxter, here we go.”

Sullivan rang one bell, slow ahead. Bowater peered out the window, trying to see what Sullivan saw, but it was all black waterfront to him.

“Hard a’port,” Sullivan said. He rang slow astern. “Hell, Cap’n Bowater, we’re doin all kinda good for the navy tonight,” he continued, eyes fixed on the shore. “Bringin the crew of the Tennessee upriver. Gettin this here coal barge for what’s left of the Confederate Navy fleet, up there at Memphis.”

“Navy fleet?” Bowater asked. “Not the River Defense Fleet?”

“That’s right.”

“Well…” Bowater paused while Sullivan raced out onto the hurricane deck, then raced back into the wheelhouse. “I didn’t realize there were any naval forces left up there.”

“Oh, hell, yes, Cap’n. A few. And of course the Tennessee , and her sister ironclad Arkansas , they’ll need coal, soon enough. Navy fellow there heard I was comin down to Vicksburg, why, he asked would I pick up this barge for him. ‘Pleased to help,’ I said.”

“That’s good to hear, Captain. We’re all fighting the same war, after all. We’re often too quick to forget it.”

“Amen to that, Brother Bowater. Come left, you blind, poxed son of a whore!” That last was shouted at Baxter, who was coming left even as Sullivan said it. Baxter emitted a little puff of smoke from his cheroot, like a miniature steam engine, kept his eyes forward.

Sullivan rang all stop, then a jingle and a bell for slow astern. He stepped out into the dark, looked aft, and this time Bowater followed him out onto the deck. In the light of a few feeble lamps on shore he could make out a barge tied alongside a wall, a train sitting on a siding, and sundry tugs lying against a wooden dock.

Sullivan raced back into the wheelhouse, rang all stop. The General Page shuddered slightly as the stern came against the barge.

“Come on down, Cap’n Bowater. Let me show you how we make these barges up, Mississippi style.”

Bowater followed Sullivan down the ladder to the boiler deck, then down to the main deck and aft. The General Page ’s stern was hard against the barge and the riverboat men were swarming over it, running lines to the big bollards on the Page ’s fantail.

“Hey, what the hell you doin?” The voice came from the dark, from the shore. Bowater looked past the barge. A man was standing there, on the far side, on the edge of the wall. He was just visible in the light of the lantern he held in his hand.

“Pickin up the barge, here!” Sullivan shouted back.

“Like hell! Who are you?”

“Got Captain Bowater here, of the Confederate States Navy!” Sullivan shouted across the heaps of coal.

“Who?”

“Hold your horses there, brother!” Sullivan shouted, then turned to Bowater. “Cap’n, go over there and explain to that chucklehead, will you?”

“Explain what?”

“You know, about the coal for the navy, and the Tennessee and all. How we’re all fightin the same war.”

“But-”

A heavy line sailed over the taffrail and Sullivan grabbed it up, pulled it over to the starboard bollard. “Go on, Cap’n, tell him how this here coal’s for the navy. Best hurry or sure as hell we’ll miss the tide!” he shouted while straining against the rope.

Bowater stepped over the rail, onto the barge, made his way around the edge with one foot on the caprail and the other on the heaps of coal. He crossed around to the seawall, stepped up to face the man with the lantern.

“Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?” The man with the lantern had the look of a watchman, too old and sodden for any other work. He appeared to be leaning on a cane, but up close Bowater saw it was a shotgun.

The watchman glared at Bowater. His eyes moved over the gold-embroidered ornament on Bowater’s cap, with its single star, fouled anchor, and wreath of oak leaves. He squinted at the shoulder straps on his gray frock coat.

“My name is Bowater, Lieutenant Bowater of the Confederate States Navy.”

“That a fact? What’re you doin?”

“Ahh…” Bowater was not sure. “This barge, apparently, is bound for Memphis. For the naval force there.”

The watchman frowned. “Supposed to be picked up tomorrow. Bound for Natchez.”

Bowater felt the irritation mount. Why was he talking to this man, and not Sullivan? “I know simply that I was told the barge is intended for the navy at Memphis.”

“All right then, let’s see your papers.” The watchman sighed.

Papers? Bowater thought. My commission? What papers?

“Ya got papers, ain’t ya? Receipt, contract for the barge? Didn’t Mr. Williamson give you no papers?”

This was idiotic and Bowater was about to say as much when he heard the churning water sound of the General Page ’s paddle wheels beginning to turn hard, and the side-wheeler’s steam whistle howled. Bowater looked over, startled. The barge was pulling away from the wall, he could see the black space opening up, the chasm between barge and wall and the dark water at the bottom. The whistle stopped and Sullivan’s voice boomed over the sound of the paddle wheels, shouting, “Come on, Cap’n! Jump for it, you’ll miss the damned boat!”

Bowater looked from the barge to the watchman to the barge. “Hold her there, you thievin son of a bitch!” the watchman shouted. The shotgun thudded on the packed dirt as he let go of the barrel, grabbed hold of Bowater’s collar. Bowater knocked his hand aside, sprinted for the wall. He launched himself off, was flying through the air, when it occurred to him the barge might be too far away already.

It wasn’t. He landed hard, fell forward, hands down on the lumps of coal. He scrambled to his feet, scrambled up the hill of coal. The night was filled with a flash like lightning, the boom of the shotgun going off. A swarm of buckshot hit the coal just at Bowater’s left hand, spit fragments of the black rock into his face. He scrambled on, up over the coal pile and down the other side.

The barge was still up against the General Page ’s transom, and Bowater grabbed hold of the rail and pulled himself over. Ruffin Tanner was there, helping him over, and Francis Pinette. Further forward, standing in a clump and out of the way, were six of the riverboat men. They were smiling, enjoying the show.